Hope is the thing with feathers.

This is my favourite poem.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me

I have had a very busy and very naff day. Really low this afternoon.

I love finding white feathers as it really does have a lot of meaning for me.

I saw this one this morning when getting the chickens up...so having come home from a restorative night of barbershop I hunted in my garden for the feather with a touch and my blackberry.

Hope, its all you have sometimes.